


This Cruel World

by Inkstained_Dreamer



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Albinism, Angband, Gen, Medical Experimentation, Sauron is a science nerd, Thuringwethil is a sass queen and I'm so here for it, it took me several minutes to think up the one sex joke in this story, rated teen for a tad bit of blood and mentions of unethical medical practices, why do I keep writing sad things?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27385888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkstained_Dreamer/pseuds/Inkstained_Dreamer
Summary: This story was actually inspired by some of you gorgeous humans (!), who wanted to find out more about the young woman who appears in one chapter of my fic "Prince of Shadows." So...this is that story!
Relationships: Sauron | Mairon & Original Female Character(s), Sauron | Mairon & Thuringwethil, one mention of Melkor/Sauron
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	This Cruel World

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to read the fic this is connected to for this to make sense, but, if you haven't, just know that our protagonist is, pretty much, a lab rat of Sauron's.

The first thing she remembered was cold. It was strange that she would remember it, frigidity without sound or sight, but she did, and she knew, without a doubt, that it was the first thing, the beginning of her world, the beginning of  _ her. _

She had never seen ice or snow, but her hair and her skin were the porcelain white of winter. She did not know what winter was, but she knew cold. She was always cold, a snow-child in an iron cage. One of many, not alone, but walled off, closed in. None of the children spoke to each other. Not with words, at any rate. In that suffocating darkness, it felt as if words would shatter and cut you like so many crystal shards of glass.

She didn’t know what glass was, either. But she knew blood. She knew blood, the only warmth in the iron tomb, the only semblance of color in her small, dark world. Sometimes the other children would claw at their skin, at their faces, letting blood drip down, leaving sticky smears on their cheeks, as if they had been crying. Not that they didn’t cry with tears. They did that too. But never, never when the metal-clad guards were there, with their clawed hands and their eyes alive with malice. Children who cried were Taken. Nobody knew where. Sometimes they came back, often with purple-red scars on their skin. Sometimes they didn’t come back. She could intuit where they had gone, then. She knew death. They all did. It surrounded them, whispered in their dreams as they slept, stroked their tears away with gentle, numbing hands. 

She had seen someone die once, a boy. He had been screaming, writhing as if burning within, and the guards had kicked and stabbed at him with their cruel claws, and then there he had stopped twisting and had opened his eyes and  _ stared _ at her, and blood had been bubbling up from his mouth, making him gurgle like a fish (she had never seen a fish, had nothing to compare the sound to) and then had gone still and she had looked away from his glazed eyes as if there was something in them that could hurt her. Maybe there was. Maybe. Maybe. The air had smelled of iron for days after, as if the wraith of the boy still lingered in that place where he had died. Maybe it did. It could’ve. There was room enough, in that freezing prison, for wraiths much larger than that of a nameless child. 

~ ~ ~

Sight is important for most of you. Do you wonder what she looked like? If she was tall, or if her eyes were brown or blue or green, or what color her hair was? It isn’t the most important thing, but maybe you’ll want to know. Because your eyes are so important to you.

She was small, almost bird-like (birds were another thing she had never seen; even if she had gone outside to stare up into the smog-filled heavens, she wouldn’t have seen anything in that choking miasma), and pale. Her lips were tinged blue, her eyes were wide and light purple-red, like a half-healed bruise. Her hair was white and matted (but not filthy, all the children were kept relatively clean, less would sicken that way, and sickness can’t be afforded). Those rare times she spoke, it was always in a whisper, lips barely moving, shy eyes fixed on the ground (as if looking away could protect her--which it couldn’t. Not from what she was facing). 

Can you see her? Can you see her clearly, as clearly as you would see your own reflection? If you saw her, would you stop and think? Or would you keep on moving, keep on going, keep on forgetting? It doesn’t matter, does it? Not to you, at least. 

~ ~ ~

Even if she hadn’t spent most of her time looking at the ground, she would have noticed the two pairs of feet immediately. The children were filing back from the baths, from the guards with their pens ticking off boxes and their pokes and prods and the lights they shone in everyone’s eyes to look for sickness. She was walking, her bare feet leaving wet prints behind her, the other children jostling around her in a black-clad throng, when she saw them: polished boots glistening black and shiny in the light of the guards’ lamps, and beside them, slender clawed feet wrapped in strips of silk (she didn’t recognize it as silk, but she thought it looked much softer than her rough tunic and wondered what it felt like). She stared, widening her pale eyes and trying to cut through the noise of the guards and of the padding of small feet. 

“Well,” said Silkfoot, in a lilting singsong,“This is boring. Why’d you bring me?”

Blackboots sighed irritably. “I didn’t bring you, Thuri. I explicitly told you not to come, but, since you seem to revel in disregarding your superiors, you came along anyways. It’s your own fault if you’re bored.”

“I don’t understand why you want these tiny little humans, Ronny. They smell  _ disgusting _ ,” whined Silkfoot, pushing her clawed feet into the side of the unmoving boots.

“For the last time, Thuringwethil,” groaned Blackboots, “Do. Not. Call. Me. Ronny.”

Silkfoot--Thuringwethil--giggled. “But you call me  _ Thuri _ . Why can’t I give you a cute nickname?”

“Because,  _ Thuringwethil _ , my name, unlike yours, is not completely and utterly unpronounceable. If I took the time to say your entire name each instance I told you to stop  _ whining _ , I would waste my life away.”

She froze, feet glued to the floor, listening, letting the other children pass her by.  _ Who were they?  _ She inched closer, fear momentarily pushed aside by curiosity.

The girl (at least, she thought she was a girl, but those clawed feet looked nothing like anything she had ever seen) called Thuringwethil gave a petulant huff. 

“Lord Melkor thinks my name is beautiful. He said it suits me.”

Blackboots snorted. “Lord Melkor is almost as much of a spoiled brat as yourself. I wouldn’t take his compliments.”

Thuringwethil’s tone turned sweeter, but the sting lurking underneath made the air seem filled with needles. “Really? You wouldn’t? Even when you’re in his bed? From the amount of noise you two make, I’d say that you took more than his compliments.”

“Say that again and I’ll cut out your tongue, Thuri, you insolent little profligate,” Blackboots snarled.

“Ooh, I’m so scared, Mai-Mai. Look at me. My hands are just  _ shaking _ ,” squealed Thuringwethil, rising onto her toes, claws clicking against the floor. 

Thoughts raced through her mind. Who were these people? Who was this Lord Melkor they talked of? What was a profligate? Should she keep walking? Would they notice her if she moved? She realized now, that the corridor was almost deserted, save herself, a few stragglers, and the two quarrelers leaning against the wall. She shivered, curling in on herself, hoping not to be noticed. She couldn’t have said why, not then, but these two people, sweet-voiced as they were, made her insides twist up, as if even they wanted to shrink away from the sound of those silken voices. She crouched down against the wall, pressing her head against her knees.

“You need to let loose a little, Mai-Mai,” purred Thuringwethil, all venom gone. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

She fisted her hands in her hair, pulling back into the shadows as the two pairs of feet scuffed against the stone floor. Click, click, click, click. . .almost gone.

“Hey!” A colder shadow fell over her. She curled up tighter. 

“Hey, Mai-Mai! You lost a kiddie!”

The shiny boots clicked back and stopped. She heard a rustle of cloth as he bent down, feeling his scrutinizing gaze on her. She fought the urge to run.

“Little girl, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be back with the others?” 

She cringed, squeezing her eyes shut. A hand rested lightly on her shoulder.

“Little girl, I asked you a question,” he said, a little colder this time. 

“I--I. . .I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The hand tapped her head. “Hm. Look at me, child. Come, come, don’t be frightened, look at me.”

She forced her eyes upwards and flicked them over the two figures before her. Thuringwethil stood back, arms folded, foot tapping, head tilted in slight curiosity (she noted that Thuringwethil’s hair was white like hers, but streaked with black and brown and even dark red) Her eyes were almond-shaped and crimson, like the blood that had gurgled from the throat of that boy, and full of such pure malice that it made her hands shake. . .she jerked her eyes away and fixed them on the person before her. 

Long red-gold hair hung in waves over his shoulders. His lips were faintly parted, showing white teeth almost like the fangs of a wolf (she didn’t have access to the comparison, but the moment she saw a wolf for the first time, she thought of him). His eyes were golden, glowing in the darkness, staring calmly into hers. He was beautiful, but in a cruel way, as if he had been carved from stone. 

Without her realizing, her hand rose and reached out, to touch one finger to his shining hair. It was silky against her fingers, and she caught a whiff of something sweet. He didn’t move, still staring at her.

“You’re. . .beautiful,” she murmured hoarsely. She didn’t know quite why she spoke at all. Maybe it was because he was so warm and light, so vibrantly alive; if he was a flame, she was a moth, drawn inexorably towards him. A monster with the face of a god.

“Hm,” he said again. “Do you think so?”

She nodded. He smiled slightly, showing those strangely pointed teeth. “Well, I thank you, child. Come. Walk with me.”

Trembling, she rose to her feet. He towered over her, robes swishing around him like wings. He took one of her hands and leisurely strolled down the corridor, Thuringwethil following behind.

“I take it that you haven’t seen me before,” he said, a statement rather than a question.

She shook her head. 

He stopped abruptly, stared down at her. “You will respond when I speak to you.”

She looked away. “I’m sorry. No. . .I’ve never seen you.”

He kept walking, still holding her hand. “Ah. I see. Well, let me introduce myself. I am Tar-Mairon. You may address me as such. Do you have a name, little girl?”

“A name?” She wrinkled her brows.

“Yes. What are you called?”

“I. . .am not called anything, Tar-Mairon.”

He nodded briskly. “Mm, yes. I’ll think of something. He paused a let go of her hand, reaching out to stroke a lock of her hair. “Hair this pale is unusual among your people, yes?”

She quivered at the touch. “I--I haven’t seen anyone else with my hair.”

He smiled at that, bending down again to look into her eyes, tilting her head from side to side. “Hm. I have always loved anomalies.” He ran his thumb over her pale eyelashes. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “A total lack of pigmentation. I could work with this. She seems meek enough.”

He was talking to himself now, she could see that. She wondered if she was going to miss mealtime. She hoped not.

“Little one,” he said, coming back to her, “How would you like to come and help me? You seem useful enough. Do you think you can work?”

She could see that this was one of those times where someone said a question but meant a command. 

“I’m a good worker, Tar-Mairon,” she said to her feet. “I can do whatever you want.”

He laughed a little. “Be careful when, little one. Don’t throw around blanket statements. You might get hurt that way.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Thuri, go tell the keepers that I’m taking her with me.”

“Tell them yourself,” she sniffed, and began waltzing down the corridor. “I’m out of here.”

The monster raised one bejeweled hand and jerked it through the air, as if yanking on a string. Thuringwethil flew backwards, tumbling to the ground before his feet.

“Thuringwethil,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “I said go.”

She ducked her head and pushed by them, her hair over her face, voiceless.

The monster turned back to her and smiled his sharp-toothed smile. “Now, one more important thing: you are now “Annika.” That is your name. And you are mine.”

_ Annika. Annika. Annika _ . She rolled it over and over in her mind as she walked in Tar-Mairon’s wake, the silk of his robe tickling her bare feet.  _ Annika. Annika. Annika.  _

~ ~ ~

They walked in silence for what seemed a long time to her. She had never seen these halls, the many, many doors they passed. The monster didn’t speak. Annika didn’t either, but she looked and looked and looked--at the dark ceilings, at the guttering torches, at the countless locked doors. The only sound was the faint tapping of Tar-Mairon’s boots; Annika was used to walking silently. The floor was very cold, and the shadows that fell across her seemed almost alive. She hurried after the monster--even monsters are some comfort in living darkness (she didn’t know yet that there were worse things).

They stopped at a door, Annika still dizzy from the winding staircase behind them. Tar-Mairon fiddled for a moment with the latch, and then, with a creak, the door swung open before them, and Annika was drawn into the brightest room she had ever seen.

Everything was sparkling metal or gleaming white tile. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with jars and bottles. Books were stacked neatly on tables, wicked-looking instruments hung on the walls. Annika stood still and stared about her, blinking and befuddled. And it was warm. The floor seemed to hum beneath her chilled feet. She bent down and pressed her palm against the floor, amazed. 

She must have gasped, or made some slight sound, because, with another waft of that sweet scent, Tar-Mairon turned his delicate face towards her and smiled with amusement.

“Yes. It’s probably warmer than you’re used to. You see, Annika, it’s very important to make sure that subjects are relaxed. Cold tenses the muscles, which makes things  _ so _ much more difficult.” He tilted his head and laughed slightly. “You don’t understand anything I’m saying, do you, pet?”

“N-n-no. I’m s-s-sorry.” Annika shivered a little, lifting her hand from the floor. 

The monster crouched in front of her, his shining eyes level with her face. “No need to apologize, sweet child. You’ll learn. We’ll start now.” He stood up, resting a guiding hand on her shoulder. “Come along.”

“Now,” the monster began, “Do you know what ‘science’ is, Annika?”

“No, Tar-Mairon. . .”

He patted her shoulder. “Not to worry. You seem clever enough, for a human, of course. You’ll get it. Science, Annika, is the study of why things are the way they are. And how you can change those things. That is what I do here. Do you understand so far?”

“Yes, Tar-Mairon,” she whispered.

“Good. Let’s keep going.”

The room was much bigger than even the cages many floors beneath it. Annika stared around her as Tar-Mairon pointed out things, using words she had never heard before-- scalpels, trocars, forceps, clamps. They seemed to gleam hungrily, like the teeth of a wild animal. Annika drew as close to the monster as she dared and looked away.

At last, they stopped, no longer in sight of the door. Annika stifled a yawn. She was hungry. Would Tar-Mairon get angry if she asked to go and eat? He turned away, brushing some invisible specks of dust off of an astrolabe, and Annika sagged wearily against the wall.

Something jabbed into her back, and she stumbled forwards again with a yelp. Tar-Mairon turned, putting the astrolabe back on the table.

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

He learned down, eyebrows furrowed, and tilted her head back and forth, as if looking for damage. 

Annika let out a quavery breath and managed to stay still under the touch. “I was just surprised, that’s all. What is that on the wall?”

The monster stood up and smiled. “Oh, that. I’m glad you asked.”He pointed to the metal hatch in the wall, the hinges of which had poked Annika. “This is the flue, as I like to call it.” He tapped his fingernails against it, making the metal ring.

“What. . .does it do?” Annika asked tremulously. 

Tar-Mairon smiled. “It leads straight to the incinerators. Using this, no one has to go back and forth  _ carrying  _ all that  _ stuff _ down to the fires for disposal. It’s _ so  _ much more efficient.”

Annika licked her lips. She felt quivery inside, as if some of the shadows from the hallway had jumped down her throat and were desperately trying to get out of her stomach. 

“Tar-Mairon?”

“Mmm?”

“What. . .what do you put down the flue?”

The monster threw back his head and laughed merrily. “Why, specimens of course! Living matter can be quite messy, you know--much easier to just drop the broken things in the fire and start afresh, that’s what I say.”

Annika thought that her heart must have taken a dive down the flue, because she was sure it wasn’t beating anymore. All those hungry-looking tools on the walls--they were for cutting open people, slicing skin and veins and bone. 

The room swirled around her. Tar-Mairon had turned away, as if he’d said the most routine thing he could think of. Annika smelled that cloying fragrance again, and it seemed to her now that it smelled of death, of blood, of pure cruelty.

(She didn’t know the word ‘monster’ yet, but had just met her first one.)

~ ~ ~

She’d be dead seven years later (though she didn’t know that; time was meaningless to her), her body scarred, her blood pumped full of poisons. The monster tired of his toys easily, especially the useless ones. He had shattered three vials on the wall the day he’d learned that Annika was sterile, had screamed and torn apart a mouse he’d been testing on. He had wanted to try and replicate her “unique condition,” as he called it, had hoped to breed a new race to bend to his will. 

One hopes that the cruel rarely get their way--they shouldn’t, after all. If your world was perfect, they would not. But your world is not perfect, and sometimes the monsters win. 

So Annika died, her contorted frame (or what was left of it, after the monster was done) dropped casually into the flue, to further the calculations that would determine the fate of the world. And she was forgotten (well, almost--one person, still half-child himself, remembered her, held her in his breaking heart as he hurtled toward the fiery doom that awaited him. But that is another tale).

~ ~ ~

We who wait beyond the world are patient. Human lives are like so many fleeting sparks, there a moment and gone the next. But sparks in the night are beautiful, no? I watched Annika, through her trials in that freezing prison, and I gathered her into my arms at the last, ripped and torn as she was. But the thing about humans, the marvelous thing that sets them apart from every other creature in Arda, is the strength of their tiny, puny hearts. Through fire and flood, through ice and storm, they  _ survive _ . They are fragile, small, weak as fledgling birds, but braver than the mightiest warriors of the West. Or at least, Annika was. 

_ But she died _ , you say.  _ She was weak, broken at the last. Why call her brave? _

Ah. You have asked the eternal question, have you not? What, indeed, is the nature of courage? 

I would tell you it is love. That courage is to love and live even when the world seems full of darkness.

My brother in the North, perhaps, would tell you that I am wrong. That courage is taking. Conquering. Destroying. Remaking the world in your image. 

He does not think there is courage in tears, in heartbreak, in remembering light in the deepest, darkest cavern. 

Ah. I think he is wrong. A heart that cannot comprehend compassion will never understand true courage. 

But, perhaps you are the one to find out. You must tell me where your quest takes you. Perhaps you will go and ask the Queen of the Heavenly Mountain herself. Perhaps you will sit at her feet and find the answers you seek. Or perhaps you’ll find them in the darkest forest, in the steepest ravine, in the stormiest sea.

(I predict the latter, myself.)

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Just so you know, Annika has albinism (lack of pigmentation that changes skin, eyes, and hair). And yes, her eyes are really reddish. It is caused by blood cells in the retina showing through the depigmented iris.   
> Thank you so much for reading!! I hope you enjoyed. Have a beautiful day. :)  
> So much love to you all!! Stay safe out there. <3


End file.
